


No Light, No Light

by AgentDonegal



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: 5+1 Things, BAMF Nicky will provide answers, BAMF Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Bottom Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, He's just trying to figure things out, He's new to the team, Kinda, M/M, No one dies but asses are KICKED, Not first person, POV Booker | Sebastien le Livre, Period Typical Attitudes, brief andromache the scythian, brief background smut where he bottoms, but lets be real they're vers, but that's not the main focus here so chill, featuring Bianca the pack mule, he has Questions, i don't know how to tag things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:34:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26440504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentDonegal/pseuds/AgentDonegal
Summary: Five times (+1) someone mistakes Nicky for a mouse. Five times (+1) they're proven wrong.Chapter 1: Sebastien's mistake; Northern California goldfields, 1849
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 47
Kudos: 276





	No Light, No Light

**Author's Note:**

> _On the boat to North America they all shared a small but private compartment below deck. It was here Sebastien witnessed for the first time with nothing less than utter shock and then a little twist of unease the easy way the two men—Joseph and Nicholas—wrapped around each other to sleep._
> 
> There's some very tired attitudes at play here, i.e. "the one who bottoms is the less masculine/is the woman," etc. which I was loathe to write but believe me when I say that's all Booker and I Shan't Stand For It. Besides, give him time and he'll improve, guys. Maybe not entirely by the end of this chapter, but in general. Have a little faith.

> _No light, no light  
>  In your bright blue eyes  
>  I never knew daylight could be so violent…_  
>  \- ‘No Light, No Light’, _Florence + The Machine_
> 
> _“He thinks you’re a mouse, Nicky.”_  
>  \- Joe

**Northern California goldfields, 1849**

When Sebastien Le Livre died the first time at age of forty-two, he was both, A) very cold, and B) the best forger in all Northern Eurasia. No, his name was not known far and wide; forging didn’t lend to popularity or admiration except in very specific, exceptionally seedy crowds.

Thirty years later, it was on this leg he leaned as he tried to carve out a little space for himself in the rag-tag group who found him, took him in, were, impossibly, _like him_.

Perhaps he wouldn’t have tried so hard if the circumstances of their meeting had been any other. If he hadn’t been startled awake in the gutter with a boot nudging into his ribs. If he hadn’t had to blink owlishly, red faced and watery eyed, up into three faces staring down at him _like that_.

Like he meant something. Like they were happy to see him, like so few people were—and strangers, at that, but also…

These were faces he dreamt of for decades. He’d been sure he was succumbing to madness. It wouldn’t be the first time a Le Livre made the descent; he had an aunt on his father’s side he recalled visiting only once as a child. The room of the institute had been so empty, so bleak. Much like his aunt, herself. _Hysterical_ , doctors called her then. Hundreds of years later, they’d have a different word for it, for the sullen and lackluster look in her eye, for the inability to get out of bed in the morning, a name for the lack of energy to wash herself or even to speak.

So, yes, maybe he felt he had something to prove when he suggested they follow the gold rush to North America. His three companions went along with it, and with barely a word between them; a glance, a shrug, and it was settled. Not quite privy to the entire non-verbal conversations they were capable of (and how long would he need to be in the fold for it to happen? Decades? Centuries?), still he sensed it had less to do with any great enthusiasm for the idea as much a lack of anything better to do. He was grateful all the same.

On the boat to North America they all shared a small but private compartment below deck. It was here Sebastien witnessed for the first time with nothing less than utter shock and then a little twist of unease the easy way the two men—Joseph and Nicholas—wrapped around each other to sleep.

“Problem?” Andromache (“But you can call me Ann”) asked quietly. He didn’t miss the way her eyes started to go hard around the edges in the few seconds it took him to sputter out an answer.

“No,” he said cautiously, “It’s…efficient. Saves space, conserves body heat.” She’d grunted and he’d wondered over the small smirk tugging at her lips. They said no more on the topic.

In the days following he watched his companions closely. They sat on opposite sides of the table as they ate. He never saw them touch outside of when it was necessary for them to do so for their work on the ship, hands brushing hands without an accompanying, secretive glance as they passed lengths of rope. Perhaps it was as he thought, nothing more.

And yet every night they’d tuck themselves into their little corner and there had to be something, _something_. Sebastien had yet to witness a kiss but sometimes they’d stand for long moments with their hands on the rounds of each other’s shoulders, foreheads pressed together before kneeling together to the threadbare blanket which served as their mattress, moving so carefully and tenderly around each other until they settled, often pressed back-to-chest, to slip off to sleep.

Sebastien awakes to a muffled noise, chasing it out of one of his endless nightmares. A watery scream? The Lost One’s fists banging endlessly against her iron coffin?

There were no windows and the sole lantern had long been snuffed. He strained to hear it again, whatever it was which woke him, but the longer the silence stretched on the more certain he became it wasn’t in his head but here, in the room with them. Maybe _she_ was here, crouched right beside him. Maybe what had woken him was a lone _drip_ from her long, sodden locks. Her eyes would be wide, insane, staring at him from inches away. Reaching for him with bloodied fingers torn from scrambling for centuries at the unyielding prison of her innumerable deaths—

Eyes bulging against the darkness, slowly, slowly, he could start to make out the shapes of their quarters. Ann across the way, resting upright against one of the many barrels they’d been stuck in with but quite asleep with her head sagged against one mighty shoulder.

He nearly missed it over the hammering of his heart and the incessant groaning of the ship against the waves when it came again—a soft sigh. Snapping his gaze to the corner of the room, it took only seconds to reconcile the scene with the noise.

Nicholas, _à quatre pattes_ , Joseph pressed up along the length of his back like a second skin. One of his hands covered Nicholas’ stubbled jaw, silencing him. Well, nearly, save for the occasional softest murmur that escaped between broad, careful fingers. The other of his hands moved between Nicholas’ legs, muscled shoulder pumping as they rocked together. It wasn’t much more than a slow, near silent grind but there was absolutely no mistaking what their arrangement was. Sebastien tore his gaze away, ears blazing.

And yet in the light of day, the question still haunted him. He found himself working at it, turning it over again and again in his mind just like a mutt works tirelessly at his fleas, entirely without relief.

He finds Nicholas above deck, staring not-quite expressionlessly out at the waters with his longish dirty-blond hair whipping in the breeze. He looked up when Sebastien approached but little else. He wondered if he’d made a mistake not to approach Joseph instead, who he knew he could easily find below deck with a sprig of charcoal and a journal. There would be an easy smile, laugh-lines around the corners of his kind eyes at his approach. Though, he’d probably set aside his sketches and invite Sebastien to a game of cards he’d never even heard of, and he knew the inquiry would die in his throat. Here, at least, there was no small talk to be found, no distractions. Just a steady gaze. 

Which made especially awkward when Sebastien, unnerved by the growing silence, finally blurted, “You are Joseph’s wife?”

Nicholas’ jaw twitched. A ghost of a smile tipped one end of his lips. Those pale eyes darted over Sebastien’s shoulder as the rest of him stayed perfectly still and he realized with a lightning bolt of apprehension that he could have been overheard, fool that he was. If what he’d bleated was true and someone in eavesdropping range, he would have put Nicholas in quite a spot with the crew.

His own queries aside, he wanted no harm to befall this man. He started to stammer out an apology or try to disguise his question as something else when their eyes met once more.

“No.”

He pondered at length tossing himself overboard to see if it would un-stick his foot from his mouth. Nicholas seemed wholly unperturbed, so perhaps there was chance of recovery from this misstep. What he’d seen, what he _thought_ he’d seen the night before, obviously he was mistaken. Or perhaps his (friend? Certainly not, not after this) companion was attempting to save face. Sebastien could allow him that, at the very least.

“No, no. Of course not. My apologies, Nicholas, I—”

“I have no womb for his seed,” the man announced with the same deadpan expression. After a beat, he added, “Husband. That would make me his _husband_ , Sebastien.”

Sebastien walked away with the soft hollows under his eyes burnt bright red. If a rich, deeply amused laugh followed him, it was easily mistaken for and lost in the breeze.

Andromache took off shortly following their arrival to North America’s western coast, as he would come to find was her wont, disappearing with a comment on catching up with an old acquaintance or their grandchildren. She wasn’t quite certain how much time had really gone by since her last visit.

Sebastien shivered then at the casual way she’d said it, haunted by the idea that decades would someday come to pass as days.

At the docks, Joseph bartered for a pack mule. Nicholas named her Bianca. Sebastien immediately renamed her ‘unruly bitch,’ as at his first hesitant pat to what was certain to be a velvety soft muzzle she’d flattened her ears back against her skull and bit him with such determination and unerring accuracy, he wondered if they’d known each other in a past life. Maybe he owed her money. The pain brought tears to his eyes, and to the eyes of his companions, who laughed so hard and for so long he had the opportunity to watch the fractures in his fingers right themselves, time enough to recover emotionally and chuckle along.

He gave Bianca a wide berth henceforth. 

They travelled inland for several days before setting up camp a couple miles removed from a more permanent panning settlement. Sebastien set out to do what he did best, and with the best intentions.

Except the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, so maybe what ended up happening was not much of a surprise. Which meant, of course, is that he ended up in the nearest watering hole, getting zozzled enough to see snakes and throwing quite a bit of money around. Not real money, and he’d not had _quite_ enough time to perfect, but in the gloom of the tavern and up to his eyes in warm beer and brandy, he didn’t think much of it. Doubted the people he’d swindled would, either. 

He underestimated the American eye when it came to their money; especially in the cold light of day, away from the liquor and women and with pounding headaches to boot.

Which is how they found themselves held captive by a group of extremely pissed off men who took joyful turns beating the everfucking shit out of them.

Them being himself and Joseph. Nicholas avoided capture by mere chance; he was out hunting when the men decided to fall upon their camp with revenge set in their furious eyes, hard-set mouths and heavy fists.

They let off eventually to regroup, fists bruised, muscles weary from the strain of the beatings they’d handed down. Sebastien and Joseph were bloodied enough so their bruises—lack thereof, after mere moments—would not be suspect, and it was in this precarious, temporary lull Sebastien explained himself.

Joseph smiled, damp curls sticking to his forehead with sweat but unable to push the locks away from his eyes, arms and torso tied quite efficiently behind his back from where he’d been strapped to the trunk of an oak. Or hickory. Sebastien’s specialty was money, art (a discovery which had caused Joseph to crow in delight and had kept them up for several hours the first night they had the chance to sit and discuss. He was quickly out of his depth given the hundreds of years of professional interest Joseph brought to the table, but curly haired man was all passion and eager ears, never once mocking the gaps in Sebastien’s knowledge but simply filling them in with his own), certain weapons—so he could really give a fuck about which type of tree was which. Except to know he was tied to one, with very little wiggle room or hope for autonomous escape.

“It will be alright. He’ll free us,” Joe said. Sebastien frowned. According to his dark-haired companion his Arabic is coming along nicely, but he’s certain he misheard.

“Ann?” He croaked, unsure if it’s the dust he’s inhaled while his face was pummeled into the ground or the mere thought of their leader which turns his throat so parched. That she was leader was the one thing he’s never questioned and the thought of her riding in out of the dark on some noble steed to save them doesn’t seem entirely unrealistic. 

“Andromache would, of course, but she’ll not know of our, shall we say, predicament? For several days. We’ll be away and laughing about all this by then,” Joseph assures with easy confidence. And warmth, such easy forgiveness, as if Sebastien merely dropped and shattered a drinking glass—an extra one, at that—instead of getting the two of them apprehended and beaten as thieves for, judging by the hint of orange settling on the horizon, the last twelve hours. “No, my Nicolò will come. Have faith.”

 _Nicolò_. Nicholas. Well, of course he’d come; he’d have to return to camp at some point, lest he be a deserter. Sebastien knew something of deserters, had looked one in the face over the bathroom sink every morning for the last nigh-on eighty years. He didn’t think Nicholas fit the profile.

He also didn’t think Nicholas was one to take on half a dozen fully pissed-off men by himself. He and Joseph, the two of them had been overtaken easily enough—they’d been unarmed and surprised, of course, but still. Joseph more-so, as Sebastien hadn’t clued him in to the forgeries or even the _possibility_ of revenge beforehand. Stupid, careless, shameful mistake. The way Joseph had tried to greet the strange men as friends and been sucker-punched in the gut before being fell upon by the lot, and he’d had _no idea why_. Sebastien tried to apologize, he did, but Joseph only waived him off—without his hands, of course, just sort of snorting and half-shrugging as well as one could with a broken nose and his hands tied—with all the confidence in the world they’d soon be free.

By Nicholas.

The image of the night on the boat rose unbidden to the front of Sebastien’s mind. Nicholas on all fours, taking his pleasure like a dog. All his quiet, unassuming ways. He’d proclaimed he was a man, not a wife, but still Sebastien cannot help but feel a little underwhelmed at the prospect of their successful rescue.

He continues to think this right up until the very moment the man himself appears as a silent specter between them. Joseph doesn’t startle but Sebastien does, holding back the yelp which would have alerted their captors by mere chance. He’s simply too busy choking on his surprise to give voice to it.

“Joseph, your knife?” Nicholas whispers in hushed yet somehow politely conversational French, eyeing the ties that bind. Tugs at them experimentally, to which they give not a centimeter.

“They took it,” Joseph replies with a small smile. Nicholas’ back is turned towards him, turned bodily towards Sebastien, so only one of them sees the fondness in those dark brown eyes as the man adds, “You shall have to recover it, hayati. It was a gift, remember?”

“Our three-hundredth anniversary, yes. And you will have it still on our eighth,” Nicholas promises. He frowns at his bow and arrows, clearly contemplating using the broadheads to start slicing at the ropes when the men return.

“Hey!” and, “Stop him!” They shout and come on the run. Nicholas sighs and straightens.

“Do they deserve to die?” he asks calmly. Sebastien wonders at the tone; it’s snowmelt trickling over rock, not at all the warm murmur of a moment ago.

“No,” Joseph replies. Sebastien finally, finally finds his voice.

“It was my fault.”

“Ah,” Nicholas nods, and turns to face them head-on.

Two of the six pull away from the others in their rambunctious charge and so are the first to meet Nicholas and their fate. He waits until the last possible second before side-stepping the first, anchoring his heel and hip-checking, using his own forward momentum to send the man airborne over his surprisingly broad shoulder. The second is met with a swift uppercut to the very shelf of his chin and immediately crumples to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

Two down in less than five seconds. It takes approximately ninety seconds more to get through the next four, but only that long because watching their first two meet such swift retribution diminished their haste to meet him.

When they do decide to have at him, they attack all at once. Instead of letting himself become surrounded, Nicholas side-steps to a control position. He continues to side-step with the type of fluidity typically reserved for ballet or boxing so no matter how many times they attempt to surround him, he’s always on their edge, forcing them to funnel to him no more than two at a time, and only then with the second having to punch over the first to get to him.

Nicholas delivers mighty body blows to the first who tries to shoulder their way into his torso, stunning him enough so there’s time to catch the punch of the one punching over his friend’s back. There’s a quick maneuver and a _snap!_ as that one’s forearm is caught and broken swiftly in a move Sebastien will come to see with time and experience over and over again, a favorite of none other than their fierce leader Andromache.

Despite all his efforts and skill, Nicholas does take a hit; a solid one on his jaw where the hinge nearly meets his ear. He rocks to one knee, an abrupt glut of blood dripping onto his shoulder from a ruptured eardrum. It doesn’t look good and they sense it as if they were not men but wolves; it’s become less about the principle of the fight, the cause long forgotten in the shadow of bloodlust and groupthink. The remaining men have a look in their eye that’s downright frightening. A look that might mean killing if they set upon Nicholas as he’s stunned and they find they can’t stop.

He’d come back, of course, but then it _would_ mean killing, not just scaring them off or temporarily disabling them. Sebastien glances over and notices Joseph’s fear for the first time. His pupils are blown wide, eyes black with worry and brows deeply furrowed.

“Nicolò!”

There’s sudden movement as Nicholas reaches behind him, snatches up an arrow from the quiver slung across his back, and slams his fist—and the arrowhead—into the bicep of the man closest. He snaps the shaft of the arrow off right behind the point, leaving the tip well embedded as he leaps to his feet and sets upon his task with grim determination.

The last man approaches. They circle each other, circling, circling, and Sebastien wants to scream, _what are you waiting for!_ He knows not of this once-Crusader’s rage turned endless patience, has only begun to feel the tug of the currents of cool waters which run deep.

It turns out what he was waiting for is this, the lunge. Nicholas kicks his foot out, raking his boot down the man’s shin to distract from the plunge of the arrow’s nock straight through the man’s cheeks. In one, straight out the other.

In the end, the toll is this: six men with a broken arm, one broken jaw, several mild concussions, and two arrow-induced souvenirs between them. Prides are bruised but there is no loss of life.

Nicholas takes a moment to scan the area—a discord of groans and aches—before seeking out Bianca. She’s well-packed, the men having apparently decided to re-pack the camp with the intention of taking it all. He rummages through her saddlebags for several moments (and she not once tries to bite him) before producing Joseph’s anniversary present and returning to the tree line where his love and new admirer await freedom. 

A brief flicker of eye-contact between the two eldest and Nicholas swerves to Sebastien, deftly cutting his ties.

“Are you well, little brother?” Nicholas asks, helping him to his feet and putting his broad hands to Sebastien’s sides. He rubs him down briskly where the rope had started to chafe around arms and torso. Sebastien swallows repeatedly. He tries to speak several times in little fits and starts before abandoning words altogether to nod instead.

Nicholas doesn’t press. He turns to Joseph. Sebastien watches the brutal hands which dismantled half a dozen men in under two minutes total card tenderly through curls, brushing them off Joseph’s forehead before hunkering down and slashing the ropes. The frayed ends barely hit the ground before the two are pressed forehead to forehead, hands cuffing necks to draw each other close and murmuring words Sebastien doesn’t understand but knows all the same.

He can do nothing but swallow around the shame caught in his throat and tear his gaze away, focusing on the horizon. He knows he has much to apologize for, today not being the least of it, but can’t find the words.

It is several moments before he realizes someone is standing next to him. Once his attention returns, Joseph claps him on the back with a chuckle.

“See? What did I say? I told you he would come for us.”

**Author's Note:**

> This idea really got away from me, guys. I think I thought all 6 little snippets would _maybe_ total the length just this one turned out to be. Yikes! We'll see where it takes us, haha!


End file.
